


Lost in a Scent

by saretton



Series: Ineffable Husbands Week 2019 [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Flowers, Ineffable Husbands Week, Ineffable Husbands Week 2019, Ineffable Week, M/M, Not Beta Read, Pining, Rated T To Be Safe, Scents & Smells, it has potential suggestive images but in truth nothing explicit happens at all, it is somewhat decadent though, it's up to you to decide, osmanthus fragrans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 03:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20686424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saretton/pseuds/saretton
Summary: In the grand scheme of things, after millennia of longing, some weeks can be compared to a short time of human life; still, it hadn't taken long for Crowley to realize (and to confess to himself) that he missed Aziraphale. Plain and simple.---In which Crowley, wandering alone in a London park, is lured by the wind towards an all-too-familiar scent.





	Lost in a Scent

**Author's Note:**

> Ineffable Husbands Week 2019  
Day 1: Monday, 9th September 2019  
Theme: a book or a plant  
Plant: Osmanthus Fragrans

It was an unusually quiet day at the park. There were very few people, a situation which, one could have said, had a somewhat sad vibe. For a melancholic, lovestruck demon, though, it was the perfect place to dwell.

Crowley had been strolling aimlessly among plants, trees, bushes and flowers, wasting the time he had on his hands. It was indeed a dull, pacific bright day. You couldn't have asked for a bluer sky or a warmer sun. But Aziraphale wasn't there with him. He hadn't been for weeks.

"I have much work to do, dear boy. I'll reach out when I'm free." Then he'd hung up. The bastard. Always avoiding giving any kind of explanations. The point (and to some extent, the drawback) was that he loved that angel. He always had.

In the grand scheme of things, after millennia of longing, some weeks can be compared to a short time of human life; still, it hadn't taken long for Crowley to realize (and to confess to himself) that he missed Aziraphale. Plain and simple.

He'd tried to concentrate while doing some minor temptations, just to kill time; all in vain. He had no interest in getting drunk, as it would have only made things worse. He couldn't even sleep… and he usually liked sleeping, very much. It had always been his escape plan from unpleasant situations.

He ran a hand on his face, walking along the bank of a pond inhabited by a small population of ducks and swans. _Is this the state I've come to?_

He crossed the white bridge above the pond, lingered a bit watching his own reflection down below, then hopped quickly to the other side, on the vast grass field that rested there.

_Where are you now?_

Peaceful bees were zooming around, too busy to take notice of him.

_They remind me of you. Sweet, soft, caring, high sense of duty, loving towards one another. Always bustling, always busy_.

He bought ice cream from a kiosk, sat on a bench in a quiet spot by the lake (even quieter than the rest of the park, he judged) and started licking it absent-mindedly. At least his sensitive tongue, partly human and partly snake-like, helped him savour the treat a little more, combining taste buds and olfactory receptors.

Then the wind started to blow and he froze mid-licking. He'd smelled something. It was very specific and unmistakable, but he waited the next gust of wind to be perfectly clear. Very faint, but it was there. Standing up, he gulped the rest of the ice cream in one go and started following the scent like a hound dog with its prey. He was mesmerized.

After walking for a couple of minutes, having crossed the whole field of grass, he found the source of the perfume. It came from a line of saplings, heavy with small, ‘X’-shaped flowers. Their colours varied from light yellow to a strong orange, and anything in-between.

Crowley knelt to read the name of those plants, engraved on a brass plaque. They had to be new, the soil was not covered in grass yet. Osmanthus Fragrans - scented osmanthus. He felt that name being etched in his brain with fire, letter by letter. Now that he had found it, he promised to himself never to forget it.

The wind, which had lured and accompanied him side by side to that spot, decided to stayed with him and grew a little in strength, just enough to ruffle his hair but not enough to become cold or annoying.

As if obeying an unspoken command, Crowley laid down on the grass next to the plants, staring at the sky. He felt like he was being moved or held in place by another, more powerful force than his own willpower, which was quite strong per se.

How could it not be like that, when it was Aziraphale's own perfume which had come to tempt him?

The angel, for some inexplicable reason, always tried to cover it with elaborate colognes, damned be his barber. They were pleasant perfumes, yes, but Crowley couldn't be fooled. Oh, no. Osmanthus was, and had always been, his angel's natural scent, and it was better than a hundred of colognes put together. He lifted his glasses, resting them on his hair, and took a better look at the blue sky.

_This is you, angel. I know you._

With a sigh, he let his nose naturally take in more of the scent from those small, almost insignificant flowers. Perhaps they couldn’t compete in looks with lilies or orchids or other elaborate blooms, but they possessed that particular aroma which hooked you, bitch-slapped you until you felt dizzy and made you its eternal prisoner, doomed to a life of sweet bliss. He felt like cursing nature for stalking him, for taking him by surprise with something so powerful over him, so strong, but oh so delicate and honey-like and sweet.

_Come to me. Smile and laugh to keep my wretched soul alive. Wash me clean and sweet with that fragrance of yours. You, only you can and may do that._

With each breath, his mind ran away, leaped, flied, even soared in the totality, the completeness of that smell. He covered his eyes with the palm of his hands. He felt wrecked. It was as if he wanted to chase that scent away but, in truth, he wouldn’t have dared do so even if it meant the death of him.

_Where are you now?... I’ve been looking for you since forever. And yet, all you seem to do is tease me. Your fragrance, of all the few things I’m allowed to enjoy of you, is the worst one. It’s so good, this wind of love that it sticks on me like a stitching on my heart._

Luckily, he was alone. He couldn't have borne to be seen like this by _him_.

His thoughts were at the mercy of an invisible duvet all around him. Some brave flowers, spurred by the wind, hopped down from the trees to caress his face and his chest. He started to remember the first time he'd smelled this scent.

_Don’t hide. You’re beautiful. I’m at your mercy. Let me ride with you the winds that only you can master. Surround me of silence and sound, command me to be pure and I’ll be. I’ll grant your wish, any wish that takes wing from your mouth._

It had been the first time he’d spotted him in the Garden of Eden. Aziraphale had just flapped down from Heaven in a cone of light, very gently, very shyly, almost as if he wanted to be careful not to make a sound. Aziraphale, the Principality, the angel of the Eastern Gate, sword at hand, was on apple duty. Crawley (that was his name, back then), being the serpent tasked to tempt mankind, knew it, too, and very well. He watched the angel from a safe spot in a tree, waiting for a weakness in his guard. He had been waiting to strike for some time. He had a temptation to make. _The_ temptation, the very first one.

But, to his surprise, Crawley witnessed a peculiar first action of that angel on the earth. Aziraphale decided to neglect his duty for a brief time (actually, before even beginning to do it) in order to enjoy a part of that brand new paradise. He landed on the grass in front of a small tree, he touched its little flowers, smelled them. That tree, Crowley now knew, was called osmanthus. Being the first thing that Aziraphale had touched and smelled, it had become a permanent part of him. Also, that was the moment when Crawley had decided to strike, tempting Eve into acquiring knowledge, since the angel’s guard was off.

_You know I'm not strong enough. Without you, I feel weak._

From that moment, Crowley had lost track of the tree, always forgetting to see what name it had been given by the humans. Aziraphale, however, had always had that scent.

Crowley’s nostrils widened, taking it all in. Spirals of apricot and peach. A touch of vanilla. Pink ribbons pulling him in, not to let him go. A warm bath in a gold bathtub. Drops of honey on a wax and brass throne. The lightness of silk and the warmth of velvet. More.

_Where are you now?_ _Do you need me like I need you? Have you ever?_

Like Dorothy among the poppies in _The Wizard of Oz_, he was overwhelmed by the ambrosia-and-honey scent coming to him from the friendly clusters of osmanthus in the trees. It was mid-September, autumn was near. His longing was even nearer to him, to his heart. It painted him orange, it moulded him soft and spongy. It was all.

_Please. Please, angel. Don't leave me._

The perfume was already drifting off in the wind, which was now calming down. Desperate, Crowley was left alone on the grass, sprawled and face up.

_Stay with me… Keep me warm. Stay. Stay…_

He took the hands away from his eyes, placing a forearm on his forehead, and looked up. No wind was carrying the flowery scent to him anymore, even though the saplings were still close to him. He was by himself under the exceptionally clear London sky. Only he and the sun.

That star reminded him of his angel. (_What thing, among all the beautiful things, doesn’t remind me of you?_) The sun was a sort of a memo to him. It was like Aziraphale. High above. Warm. Made of light. Joyful. Loved by everyone and ever-loving. An all-encompassing, searing embrace. Crowley wondered if being held by Aziraphale would feel like being embraced by the sun. He closed his eyes, indulging at the thought, then he opened them wide.

His snake eyes remained perfectly still, transfixed in the sun. He didn't have to blink - snakes don't have eyelids, and it was only because of his human corporation that he batted his eyes. Not having an actual need for that, he could use this to his advantage. So he just stayed there, staring at the sun, taking it in; thinking of him, _his own_ sun and sky, in a slightly desperate but serene melancholy.

The golden afternoon was slowly coming to an end. The wind came back to brush his 'goodbye' on his skin, in the form of a tickling breeze, a gentle breath wrapping him up here and there, everywhere. And of course, with the breeze, for some long moments, the perfume of osmanthus was back, only for him.

Maybe it was still early for Aziraphale to admit his feelings. Maybe he'd never get there, even. But until there were sun and osmanthus flowers on the earth to remind him of his never-ending love for his angel, Crowley felt that he was alright. He would always have had hope.

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to put here my collection of fics that I've been posting on Tumblr for Ineffable Husbands Week 2019. I'm a little late, but the point is to be creative and have fun, so... here we are.  
Sorry if they're a bit messy, no beta this time. (Of course that could change in the future!)  
Come visit me also on Tumblr, the name is saretton (just like here). :)  
Hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you think.


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